Neck Deep in Dark Water
by queensofstone
Summary: Reading of Professor Kirke's, Digory's, adventures in another world leaves the eldest Pevensie sibling to wonder what adventures of his own are waiting. He goes through the wardrobe first and is overcome with only dark paths to wander. Perhaps love will be the only light or heartbreak will be the destruction of Father Time.


**Chapter One;; Golden Memories**

 **A/N:** **The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe** **takes place during World War II in war-stricken England. As you read this I want you to begin to understand what it was like in these times for everyone; something no movie could recreate today.**

 **Disclaimer: The characters of Narnia, Narnia, etc. in the books belong to C.S. Lewis.**

 _War-Stricken London, 1940 (Finchley, England)_

Peter stood at the door to his father's study. As foolish as he knew it was, he raised a hand to knock, but lowered it knowing there was no on on the other side to joyfully announce his arrival like a king. "Who is it?" Frank would ask. "It's me, Peter," the thirteen-year-old boy would say. Frank would laugh from the other side. "Of course it is! Come in, my son!" he laughed.

Peter pushed open the door, expecting his hero to be sitting on the chair inside, a sweet smelling cigar between two fingers. He could still smell that scent now. It was comforting in this time, the scent that was his father's. The eldest boy wandered over to the chair, sitting down comfortably. It let out a groan of protest as he sat back. "Hey, don't sit on my throne!" his father would had told him sternly with a twinkle in his eye. That was Frank Pevensie. Always giving Peter some kind of joke.

He'd appreciate that now more than ever. Peter leaning forward on the desk, letting his elbows to rest on the hardwood. A picture of the whole family rested there in a gold frame. It had collected dust over the past few weeks no one had been here. The boy studied it before taking in in his hands.

The Pevensie's father had enlisted in the British military weeks ago and had been recently deployed and stationed in Norway. He had been a professor before and even now in this study, papers were everywhere. His father had never thought to organize an inch of his work. One paper caught Peter's eye _Adventures in Another World_ was the title. Peter set down the picture and smoothed out the writing. The author was a professor by the name of Digory Kirke. What would interest his father in that?

"Peter, don't get caught up in there," his mother, Helen Pevensie, stood at the door to the study, leaning against the frame. "Come on," she said, motioning with her head. "It's time for dinner." Peter sighed, looking over his father's things. He stood up slowly and pushed in the ancient chair.

His mother strode to the kitchen table where his three siblings sat looking down, greedily, at their food. Peter closed the door to the study quietly. He wasn't hungry. He went to the dining room and took his seat. His mother prayed for the food, but all Peter's mind was on was the empty seat next to him. His father should be there right now, looking over his family with a happy smile.

As Helen finished Peter shifted his gaze. "Peter, what's wrong?" asked his younger sister, Susan, thoughtfully. She was only one year younger and already a lady. "I'm just not hungry," Peter replied. It was true, he wasn't up to eating. His stomach threatened him; feeling ready to turn anything he ate back the other way.

"Mother, may I be excused?" he asked. She nodded slowing, a worried look in her eyes just as any mother would when a kid behaved in that way. Mothers always knew when something was wrong, and they know exactly what it is. She looked at his untouched food, almost sorry for making it. There was a war going on and wasting food wasn't a good habit to make.

"Only if you promise to take the leftovers to the shelter tomorrow," Helen replied as Peter stood up, pushing in his chair. The Pevensies took leftover food to a shelter to help those who had little to no food; their houses destroyed by enemy bombings. Helen always needed to do something to better the world; or help with the war efforts as she called it.

"Yes, mum," he replied, turning to go upstairs to his room so he'd be alone. He heard Edmund sneer behind him, "What's his deal?" the ten-year-old laughed. Peter could feel Helen's glare at Edmund even with his back turned. He never heard another word from the four eating dinner down there that night. It seemed when his father left, an eerie silence replaced him in the family's presence instead.

Peter read until late that night. He could hear the radio speaking of war news in the parlor below. His siblings were all tucked in bed at this hour, but Helen believed Peter was responsible enough to care for himself. Even if he tried, there was no sleep coming tonight. He crept downstairs.

Standing at the bottom, he peaked out from behind the bland, white wall. Helen sat on their wooden sofa with a rough tweed material, floral in color and pattern. She looked as if she was looking at something across the room, but there was nothing there; she was staring into emptiness while the worries of war filled her ears. Only one lamp was lit, giving off a wane, yellow glow.

Peter put his feet down quietly while entering the room. His mother's head slowly turned from her fixed gaze at the wall to her eldest son. She said nothing until he came and sat next to him. "Would you care for a cup of tea?" she asked quietly.

"I don't want to make you do that," Peter replied sensibly.

"I was about to get one myself," Helen said. Peter nodded and agreed to having one, Helen got up to go to the kitchen leaving Peter in the dark atmosphere alone. It was not only a dark room, but the mood cast a shadow on the bleak parlor darker than the night outside itself. While Peter listened to the radio in silence he heard the tea kettle whistle. To him it wasn't much of a whistle because you whistle when you are happy. This was more like a scream of agony, like someone on the battlefield in the war, crying over a lost war mate. That was pain.

 _Air raids are expected for London tomorrow night, so for those at home be safe and get to your bomb shelter, have your doors locked, windows covered, and lights out._ A crackly male's voice on the radio spoke. The message?or warning?sent shivers down Peter's spine. No matter how many bombings went by, Peter hated taking shelter, and even more so hated how scared his mother got. You never knew when your house would be next. What if Finchley was demolished tomorrow? Peter would hold his breath until then, hoping that it wasn't the truth.

Helen brought two cups of tea on floral saucers into the room. Sugar and cream, too. She handed one to Peter. "What have they been saying?" she asked. Peter filled her in, she sighed. He could feel how tense she was now. She was holding up this 'fort' until Frank got back, plus she had the worry for her husband on her shoulders. It was a wonder how she didn't have gray streaks in her hair yet, Peter thought.

Helen put two cubes of sugar in her cup and a dash of cream, then stirred it up. She took a sip, too hot, Peter observed. She put her cup and saucer back down and dabbed her lips with her handkerchief. She walked over to the radio where there was a stack of papers and a small package, or something small wrapped in his father's favorite handkerchief. His mother walked back to the sofa, and sat facing Peter, she put the papers on his lap.

"When you were in your father's study earlier, I noticed you were looking at this," she pointed to the papers. "It's an informal story written by Professor Kirke, your father thought it captivating and wanted to show it to you sometime," she said. Peter looked down at the papers. _Adventures in Another World_ it didn't seem practical or like something Peter would enjoy, but if his father wanted him to read it, he would. Plus, he'd feel closer to his father when he was in Norway or wherever the war took him.

"I will," Peter agreed, running his hands over the smooth paper and handwritten words by ink, neatly even though there were no lines. A splotch of ink from Kirke's inkwell had imperfected the document near the heading.

"Now, open this," Helen said, excitement creeping into her voice for the first time in a while. Peter enjoyed her enthusiasm, if only for a spoken moment, it made him feel as if things were more back to normal; safer. She put the parcel on his lap. It was his father's handkerchief neatly wrapping up something else with a twill string tied around it to keep its shape, complete with a small bow.

Peter looked up at her as he tugged at one end of the bow. The knot came out easily and the string fell away from the package. The handkerchief loosely covered something gold and metallic. The boy gasped. His father's favorite pocket watch.

"Frank told me to give this to you if he were to…" her words hung, leaving a trail of sadness in the air. "...Never come back," Helen said, the words she choked on to leave her mouth. Tears welled in Peter's eyes. That had to mean…

"I thought he wouldn't be too mad if I gave it to you now?￢ﾀﾝ Peter took in a big, shaky breath. "?because you seem so unhappy. Oh, you can keep the handkerchief, too." She had nearly given Peter a heart attack, but he gave a her a big hug. When he pulled away, she covered Peter's hand over the pocket watch. "Whenever you feel alone, or as if your father is not with you, hold this tight in your hand and look upon the biggest star in the sky," she pointed out the window, "The North Star, and think of your father, for he can see that same star too, no matter where he's at."

Peter gave her a smile, it was a small, appreciative smile. Nothing like the real one. He couldn't manage anything of the sort. Not in these times. "Thanks, mum."


End file.
